


of beasts and names

by bee_bro



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blindfolds, Cobb's Red Scarf, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene, Pining, Sharing A Tent, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, good for them good for them, haha is it gay to ask someone youve known for like 2 days to adopt ur child haha, in case u die helping protect his town haha, technically qualifies for a makeout session bcs, they both be touch starved huh...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28675611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro
Summary: It's the middle of nowhere, what could Din possibly find in Mos Pelgo.or: din finds a lot in mos pelgro
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 18
Kudos: 186





	of beasts and names

**Author's Note:**

> so this started as frantic paragraph long texts to vanya, my beloved, and now its uh . this i guess.. what the fuck huh . i can't name the last time a fic ran away from me in wordcount and plot but hi i guess. uh its here now
> 
> anyway , this is p relaxed, just vibin, hope ya like it  
> vanya if ur looking at this ur gay

Din hates it, he hates getting caught up in politics and literally anything that smells of bigger things ahead, and afoot, and a-whatever else. It's not his thing. He used to work a simple job, as simple as professional violence gets, and now he's attached to a little green loaf that everything seems to revolve around, Din himself included- and maybe that's one part he doesn't regret.

You'd think, that after weeks of dodging every invitation into the limelight of important figures, he wouldn't readily jump into something that could turn out to be history. For the child's safety and for his own peace of mind.

But he does.

Over and over again, he gets sucked into conspiracies, historical sites, shoot-outs with the empire. He brushes elbows with people who are thrashing to leave a mark, people changing worlds. He mutters to himself about this vague distaste, rewiring his ship. And he doesn't like it, he just wants to have some rest and provide his kid with a life that isn't on the run from something the thing's too young to understand.

He just wants to stop meeting people that turn out to be wickedly linked to some intricate mechanisms in the galaxy. He just wants to take a break. 

So maybe there _is_ something on that desert planet for him. There's a lot of world-changing things happening there all the time, but there's also towns that don't appear on maps. Any maps. Towns that only have names when a local tells you. Towns which barely qualify for that monicker. And the man that pointed Din there is dead, strung up, so who'd ever follow the lead?

_(He knows they will. They always do. Inevitably and unstoppably, but this will dip off the map will stall them. This will take them precious weeks and buy that time back for Din and the child.)_

The trip is grueling. Tatooine rarely lets one forget it's a proud poster-boy for a dual-sun system, and they heat his armor relentlessly. If it weren't for his speeder's pace and the accompanying wind of roadless driving, he'd cook alive. He's had worse.

They pass skeletons half-obscured by orange sand and chase a fleeting trail into the landscape where they go. Din spots a pack of massifs running with them and slows, letting the beasts keep pace until he stops and meets their owners. The Tusken Raiders offer to share their fire and take great amusement in watching the child eat uncooked scurries. Greater amusement in a traveler so well-versed in their language. They point him to Mos Pelgo, in word choice exceedingly demonstrative of their opinions about the place. In their language, it's called both Free Town and Sitting Prey and Din thinks about that peculiar disparity when he finally spots its outline on the vast expanse of desert.

He's studied with distrustful, guarded expressions. The town quiets down upon his arrival. Strange, for a place that wasn't boasting with life to begin with. He knows he's unwelcome.

And yet there's something alluring about a settlement of so little people. Middle of nowhere. A bunch of nobodies. There's a sense of impermanence to it though, everything's too scant of belongings. Children don't play outside, nothing's set out to dry in the sun. No bottles on high shelves, he notes, like Tatooine bars like to boast. The bartender isn't happy to hold conversation either, and Din really is not good at reading others. But the folks of this smudge on the map don't make it difficult, and for that, he's almost thankful. 

Because there's something alluring about a settlement so scarce. Middle of nowhere for a bunch of nobodies.

And even if the town's sheriff wears the armor of someone larger than life, someone so viscerally important to the universe, the man who's too tall for the chest plate to sit right, doesn't know it. Din doesn't know it either. It's just Mandalorian armor.

Hell knows whose it might've been. Or whose it will be after Din.

So maybe, when the sheriff decides to trade that armor for a favor, fighting something that's just a lizard with a big ego- to Din, it's not even a huge thing to ask.

Sure it's dangerous, and there's always that chance he isn't making it out, but it's a nasty sand-born reptile. And that's _it_. And there's liberation in that. Fighting something that barely thinks past its next meal, something that has blind little eyes and nothing much to say for itself past sheer size and a bunch of teeth.

Vanth's ride is better, designed to power through harsh terrain, but he accommodates the speed and they drive together, and oh is Vanth a good driver. He handles the sand casually, managing to navigate the dunes without a need for goggles. Din half-expects him to pull that scarf up eventually, to hide his face, but it seems the thing's purely aesthetical. Instead of hiding behind layers, the man tells Din stories of the town, and as they drive by more abandoned spines of great creatures buried in the desert, he points them out. Tells Din names the town's given each. He's not hard to hear over the engines.

The terrain changes and soon it's sharp ridges. And something's there with them, Vanth hears it first and Din brakes the moment Vanth's hand shoots up to signal stop. He doesn't stay put for long though, and finds some modicum of satisfaction in calmly walking past Vanth to greet another pack of massifs.This may be Vanth's natural habitat, in a way, but Din's got the chops too. He cuts right to the chase and tells the Raiders why they're here. The Raiders barely discuss it among themselves before confirming they want the same. 

Vanth regards all this with skepticism, still holding his gun, just lowered. But he follows along. This was meant to be a scout mission without clear objectives, but the more the Sand People talk about the dragon, and the more Din translates back at Vanth, the more real their end goal becomes. 

A massif tails Vanth almost playfully, and Din can see in its eager body language the excitement of new strangers and their customary curiosity. But Vanth doesn't have the experience, can't read into the predatory animal at all, and keeps trying to put Din between himself and the thing. It's funny until the man's constant, subtle zig-zagging starts getting on Din's patience. He shoos the massif away, no hassle.

Vanth pretends he isn't glad and finally resolves to stay on one side. There's no thank you, but Din doesn't expect one. Din only hopes for a modicum of civility when it comes to Vanth and the Sand People's interactions. He doesn't know why he picks to sit not between Vanth and the Raiders, but furthest to the side.

But maybe seating arrangements wouldn't have prevented the argument. Vanth stares at his wrist for about an hour later, looking for the flame thrower's nozzle or simply admiring the craftsmanship, Din doesn't know. They're allowed a tent, the kind meant for easy folding and travel, and even as Din patiently instructs Vanth through helping to set it up, he can feel the eyes of the Raiders on them. Enjoying the circus.

He doesn't mind, they're offering a lot as it is, if they want to laugh at two outsiders handling equipment only one of them's familiar with, Din won't complain.

Vanth bristles once the peculiar laughter becomes too obvious and retreats into the tent shortly, mindful of the sand and the short ceiling. Din still needs to grab the coal-pot that each tent gets for the night in order to keep warm against the relentless desert temperature drops- but the child's whining, having barely stayed awake throughout the setting-up process, strapped to Din in a bag. Dangerous to leave him on the floor alone. Sure the massifs are friendly when you know how to approach, but they're bred from predatory animals, and those instincts to hunt don't die off.

The longer Din stays upright, the more the little one complains, and listening to a kid cry could've made a greater man give in too. Din stalks back to the tent, feeling the weight of the day and the chafe of too little sleep begin to thin out his resilience. He knocks on a support beam before sticking the satchel with the kid inside, "Anything happens to him, I'll feed you to the dragon."

Vanth grumbles something tired back and nothing more. Din gets dragged into a brief discussion of tomorrow with the group's leader before being handed the coals and sent off to sleep. He doesn't thank them for hospitality, they aren't that kind of culture.

Vanth's Mandalorian armor is carefully discarded in a corner of the tent. Or not _Vanth's_ , per se. Din looks at it before he even looks at Vanth and the kid, and remembers that's why he's here out in the desert. Here's not here to kill a dragon or save a town, he's here to get armor and intel. Mustn't forget. 

Vanth is lying on his back, child sitting on his stomach and watching intently as he vanishes a dried fruit from one palm to the other.

"Your dad ever show you this?" Vanth asks the child, but obviously times the question with Din's reappearance. 

"Not his dad," Din corrects, feeling the wear of the day settle into his joints when he sits on the ground, dusting off his shoes and taking a moment to contemplate the sleeping arrangements. "We head out with the sun tomorrow, hour and a half ride from here is where they say it lives. We'll have half an hour to gather everything." 

"Half an hour for a tent and some armor?" Vanth grins, once more making the wrinkled snack disappear, causing the child to shoot out its little hands in confused grabbing. "Don't worry, s'right here," he says quieter, making the snack almost materialize in his other palm. Din can see where he hides it on the back of his hand, from where he sits at an angle, but trusts that it makes for a spectacle. Everything Vanth does. 

"Look how long it took, with you, to set it up," Din starts unclasping the plates on his wrists, arms, shoulder. He sets it down, staying in his long sleeve and gloves underneath, and sees out of the corner of his visor as Vanth finally hands the snack to the child and reaches over to grab the shoulder-piece. "Put that down." It's more a sigh than a command.

Vanth examines it in the low light of the bulb they'll soon switch off. 

"Seen one before." He traces a thumb over the mudhorn on it and Din tries to not keep staring. "Some poachers brought it over from Arvala something."

"Arvala 7."

Vanth sets it next to the child and looks back up at Din, "Yah been there?"

There's finally that usual desert-born exhaustion on Vanth's face, kind of what Din had expected to see on a hunted town's marshall. Leader. Whatever Vanth is to them. Whatever he is at all. But instead, he's got a rare bounce in his step for someone with a head of white and a dazzling smile for someone who'd become familiar with death's breath down his back. But now, finally, at the end of a day neither were planning to spend sleeping in the desert, in the same tent too, Vanth's still regarding Din with a curious twinkle in his eye, just without that rampant energy.

Now he finally looks like someone who's facing a deadly tomorrow. 

Something that's so inconsequential to the universe, but dreadfully grandiose to this little town and the neighboring Raiders. Something that will change their life irreversibly with its absence, _and that's it,_ that is all its death will change. And isn't that why he agreed? At the drop of a hat - or of a helmet - onto the table, a helmet that revealed a pretty face. A smile you'd expect to be find tired and battered from desert life and desert death. 

"Yes."

Vanth nods and hands the shoulder plate back, "You want me to sleep in the other helmet?"

This catches Din off guard, which he's thankful is a hard thing to gauge off his hidden face. "Why?"

"Y're sleeping in yours, I'm guessin." 

Din sits there with his carefully packed away armor and watches Vanth study the tent's ceiling. What the hell is he to say? "I am. That is the way." Before Vanth can sit up though, Din stretches out a hand to halt him, "The child."

The child's asleep, face down on Vanth's chest, little hands securely dug into the red scarf. 

"Heh, s'pose I'm warm." Vanth whispers, relaxing back onto his mat. Din doubts he's gonna try sitting up again. The day's been long.

Din grabs both their borrowed tarps and leans over to extract the child, which barely stirs. "It isn't new for me to sleep with this."

Vanth doesn't reply and Din doesn't have to check to know he's asleep. All he does is get the single light, secure the coals, and drape the Tusken blanket over Vanth and then himself. It's not quiet. The sound of winds is ever-present, the whisper of sand, raiders shuffling the fire out, the breath of their animals, the breath of the child, Vanth's too. His own within the helmet. The padding inside the thing is soft and forgiving when it comes to catching sleep without taking it off. His older helmet, not so much. But now he wears pure beskar and hopes it will once again come invaluable with surviving his side of the deal.

The ride there is slow, Vanth is quiet after packing, but he does help with the tent. Easier in daylight.

They travel without speeders and Vanth keeps making faces at the child every time he's in range. The suns are blazing and everything is almost cleansed of shadow. 

The dragon is vicious.

Vanth sits by Din at an awkward tilt, almost like he's got double joints, and Din wonders how that can be comfortable for anyone's back. But Vanth just sits there with his narrow hips at a weird angle and leans on an elbow, staring at the thing with wide, surprised, but not _terrified_ eyes. He's already calculating. Din appreciates an associate that's finally barely swayed by what happens to be almost weekly trouble for Din. This worm might take the cake of big buggers he's taken down, but hey. The Sand People bring out the bones of a dunesnake and scatter coals. Here's where Din will go, here's where the marshall will, here's where the spears are. 

Din knows this won't cut it. 

He agreed to this under the words of 'killing the dragon' which, in a way, implied the _killing_ to be a one-man job. But no one brings it up. Vanth stands almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him and asks who the extra coals are. 

Din tells him: your people. 

The ride back is... unpleasant. Din doesn't know the reason behind Vanth's silence, but he can guess it's a mixture of dread and responsibility. But he's not good at reading the back of someone's head as Vanth rides a good meter ahead. Until he once more throws up a hand and they brake, not urgent, but just in time to stop within range of tall, arching ribs. Something long dead. Din can't see any immediate danger, but that doesn't mean it's not there. Before he can draw his gun though, Vanth flashes him a palm, calm down it conveys. And Vanth heads to the ribs.

The child coos as Din carries him closer to the skeletal remains of something unrecognizable in its porcelain state of death. Vanth's standing in a rib's shadow, and as Din approaches, he flicks out a knife.

"Where I grew up," Vanth glances at him, "We thought the best way ta chase luck was immortalizing names on something already beyond time." He places a hand against the white, speaking as if these words have lived in his head for years, in that order, almost rehearsed, "We carved each other's names into bones s'what I'm saying."

"For luck."

"For luck." Vanth nods and passes Din the blade, even though, just looking at Din makes it obvious he's got his own in surplus.

"And what of kids who were alone?" Din studies the knife, well-used and well-loved and red at the handle in tattering leather. He looks down to see Vanth's stretched a hand casually to the child, letting him hold onto a finger.

"Hard to find luck alone." Vanth shrugs, "Don't know if we ever believed in it completely, but... Cobb with two b's."

Vanth doesn't elaborate and Din steps closer to the rib, and into it he carves the letters of luck. Bargains with fate.

"Vanth too?"

"Nah," he gets a vague grin in return, an open palm asking for the knife back.

He gives. "Din."

"Nice to meet ya, Din," and sure hands with barely scarred, long fingers etch his name into the white. "To luck, then."

It's weird to hear his name, and Din almost hopes that it will never be uttered in public so carelessly, "To luck." 

The rest of the ride feels faster. Cobb tells him about his time growing up and how there were far fewer skeletons like that around back then, and how a kid he knew broke an arm climbing another thing's broken bones. Din stands in the tavern as the town gathers and watches Cobb talk his people into a totally new direction, like the man's dripping of natural, smooth charisma- like honey. And they're all ants. 

Their names somewhere left on the dry, forgotten arches of what once used to protect a heart and lungs, feel so fleeting. A moment in time he doubts Cobb is even still thinking of, one that they've already left far away, that will never be brought up. But Din can't help but stand there, happy to hide behind the helmet's relentless gaze, and think about how hearing his own name had sounded. Or about the littlest gesture of hope, middle of nowhere, just two nobodies wearing expensive armor and carrying the weight of a town. The moment had felt larger than life. The sand almost as white as bone in that valley. The hum of speeder engine and the louder hum of a song on Cobb's breath.

He steps in to help talk their little army into accordance.

The Tuskens arrive tomorrow morning. 

Din tails Cobb for hours as they prepare, unearthing a frankly worrying storage of explosives that barely look aged. Din just shoots Cobb a look that in no way should be evident through the helmet, but Cobb looks back with distaste as if he'd seen. People cycle by Cobb with questions and concerns and information and rarely acknowledge Din as he stands a few steps back. Cobb jokes about it looking like a bodyguard job, and they keep working, moving the explosives and gathering weapons. Din holds the heavy trapdoor of an underground storage unit while Cobb's down there, because the mechanism's old and prone to locking people in. Or getting them good and heavy across the head. So in a way, he protects him. Cobb's got a whole town to look after. Who'll look after him?

The town's small as it is, but they do have a guest building, when unoccupied, used for school. Now Din is given its key, some sheets, water. He's happy to find the place suited with heavy drapes and a little heater he plops the child in front of to warm up after the evening chill. It's dark out now and he starts up the dim light. There's two rooms, one with a bed and dresser and the other with a couch and low table. Din removes the armor and contemplates how to balance watching the child and going to use the inbuilt shower. He's learned to not leave the rascal alone, and he's thinking to put him to bed first, but there's knocking.

Cobb carries what's definitely alcohol and a change of clothes. He looks even more tired than in the Tusken tent, shadows under his eyes in the low light. 

"May I?"

He may.

Cobb watches the kid. Din leaves them at a very slow-paced low energy game of patty cake. He sponges off a few days' worth of dust before it's had time to cement into his skin, and tries to dry his hair as best as he can before putting the helmet back on. 

The child is once more asleep, this time in bed and not on Cobb, and Cobb sits there with his eyes closed too, for a moment making Din worry he too is out. 

"Marshall?"

"I'm awake, jus' no peeking just in case."

"I wouldn't walk out naked," Din sighs, folding his old clothes and marveling at the clean unfamiliar texture of the new. They fit well enough.

"The helmet I mean."

"I'm in it."

And Cobb cracks open his eyes, honestly looking like he'd rather've stayed in the half-asleep state of waiting. He looks Din over unapologetically before standing, gesturing to the couch. Din feels it incorrect to wear gloves in the local equivalent of a hotel and the most hospitality he'll probably see for a long time. Snd yet, handing a kettle for tea, hands bare in the presence of a quiet Cobb is equally not right. The alcohol stands untouched as they drink tea made from local herbs that have managed to beat the climate.

They sit on the couch and Cobb's got his eyes steadily closed, sipping occasionally, and it takes a while for Din to try his chances and tip his helmet if only a bit, enough to drink as well. Cobb's eyes stay closed, they don't talk. Din knows what they are not talking about. He knows they both need rest before the fate of lives and deaths hangs in the air.

Cobb doesn't open his eyes until he hears the clink of Din's cup on the table signaling it done. 

"How was Arvala 7?" Cobb asks out of nowhere and Din sits back on the couch, letting his back rest.

"Bad."

This makes Cobb laugh for some reason, it's wheezy and quiet, like sand outside of a warm tent, and it doesn't shake that exhaustion off his features, but it does liven him up. And just as he looks over to say something, Din decides to keep talking. He talks about the child and Arvala 7's horrible muddy patches and about other planets and space, and he knows Cobb's never been off Tatooine, and Din can't imagine being planet-locked your whole life. He, unreasonably, wants to show Cobb space. People like Cobb deserve to see that. Other worlds.

So he talks instead. And Cobb sits back, drinking his tea and smiling under his mustache.

A few cups in, he says he'd offer Din stories of his own, but they both need sleep. It's true, he's right, tomorrow fates are decided, but Din hopes _their_ fates already are. Decided with the sharp point of a knife onto bone. He sends Cobb off and locks the door. Doesn't touch the alcohol and puts it up high to lessen the chances of it grabbing the kid's attention. Din sleeps on a much wider bed than he's used to, almost softer too, and for once, he almost trusts the room to keep him and the child safe. Middle of nowhere. Right.

Sunlight out here is sharp.

Cobb pushes one of his own people away from inciting conflict, and Din feels that if Cobb had a flamethrower on the wrist, he'd use it. 

The ride there is even longer, slower, a cruel test of patience before what will ultimately be more unpredictable danger than these people are used to on a daily basis. Or maybe he's wrong. Their faces are set, he notes. Miners. A dangerous profession. He swallows back his prejudice and hopes for no deserters.

Cobb and he are the only two on speeders, and Din doesn't know why they drive alongside each other with no verbal agreement to do so. Cobb doesn't tell him any more stories and Din doesn't mention space. Right now, today, is about the desert and its various inhabitants, be that the people of a town Din's growing to understand or be it something great and hungry that resides in the safety of endless sands.

He stands on the skirts of combat with Cobb. Cobb with the detonator. They are to face a great, senseless reptile. They are to pick when enough is enough and when it is time to step into combat. There are no deserters, but there are deaths.

They soar. Din knows there's no time for it, but Cobb flies well. They're but flecks against the thing's periphery. Just keep shooting. 

Standing his ground against the massive beast, Din does not feel like his fate is sealed at all. There are a million ways this could go. Yet with only two outcomes. Death or survival. Din's control on either option is limited at best, but that's only when it comes to _his own_ livelihood. So he breaks Cobb's jetpack.

The thing slams over him like a freight train of sand and teeth, throws Din against something and clips his shoulder and then swallows, and he's already got the electricity ready. It's dark in there. There's sand and then bile and then he's being trapped, and Din makes sure the bombs are lower than he is into the dragon and _makes sure he has the detonator._ In a matter of seconds. He feels its ribs and organs as he stabs into its side to stop his fall, hangs there, in small moments when time slows down, he is in complete, awful darkness, replaced only by his heat-visor firing off at the proximity to so much blood. And then he triggers the snap and crackle of his rifle once the blinking red of each bomb is out of sight. He's oddly calm. For one second. He is oddly calm, eye of the storm, and the moment the electric shock starts to trigger, his arteries reawaken to sing with adrenaline, and Din starts his jetpack. The moment threatens to steal his breath. He rushes out.

And it is larger than life.

He feels it, the moment he's back out in sunlight, shooting through the air before the explosion ricochets through the creature, covered in muck and bile, breathing adrenaline- he feels it when he lands, sturdily into the sand, hard on his ankle, and spots Cobb sitting on the ground with his helmet underhand, sees the way Cobb's looking, grinning, like Din hung the stars.

And he might as well have, cause they'd been at each other's throats just days before, if only for the ten minutes Din was ready to kill him over armor. But now he's killing _for_ him. He's killing ancient monsters _for him_. Why? For armor? He could've gotten that at gunpoint. Cobb's bullets would've bounced off the beskar.

Instead, he's here in the direct sunlight of a now safer desert, crackling with residual electricity and wiping dirt off his visor, feeling each heartbeat like it's heavy metalworks against his ribs, and looking at Cobb grin. He's here for some other reason. Not sure which. But when he's handed the armor, as the favor's paid, he knows this isn't _it_.

The handshake's closer to _it_ , though. The handshake Din does his best to imagine the warmth of without his gloves, and can't. Not immediately. But he has a long ride ahead of him, he has time, and it'll take him that time- he barely has a frame of reference. But maybe eventually he'll be able to imagine how it would've felt. And so while the townsfolk gather themselves and their dead, and while the Raiders cut away their share, while Cobb is busy not paying attention to Din, he gets on the speeder and kicks off into the desert. Best leave before his absence can be noticed and chased.

The armor matters. Retrieving the armor matters. The armor matters to Mandalorians. But Cobb matters to Din. And so does this little town, whose fate he's become intimately intertwined with. And a testament to that soon catches up, because Cobb's speeder is better, and for once he doesn't have to keep a slower pace with Din.

And so Cobb catches up.

The moment Din hears another speeder, his first thought isn't _Cobb,_ it's that he's being hunted, chased- that the Others have finally caught up and are here to try and wrangle the child back. So Din braces for battle, tired and hurting and oh so ready to collapse, but instead it's Cobb with his shirt flapping in the wind, now that he's missing the armor to hold it in place.

"Thought we'd let you leave without a party?" He grins, and Din is quietly thankful for this altercation. He doesn't think he could've stomached the ride back to his ship. His shoulder and right ankle aren't doing too well. His breathing honestly isn't the smoothest. He just wants to rest, because while last night's sleep easily replenished a good week of missed hours, today had drained all of it. 

And so he aches the rest of the ride back, silently grits his teeth, and lets Cobb's stories ebb the pain, distract. Cobb feels alive. He talks loud and with a grin, and he lets one hand at a time drift from the speeder's handlebars to gesture in the air. When they park, Cobb cuts off his story mid-way and instead points Din to the same place he'd occupied at night, "It'll be a while before everyone else gets back, but I'll come getcha in a few hours."

Din nods and as he peels off the armor plates, the child wandering the floor, his awareness of various injuries starts bleeding back into the forefront of his mind. His ankle's close to twisted, if not so fully. Din knows what that feels like and dreads fashioning a brace for it once he has to leave. Knows the pain will really set in in a few hours. There's a cut on his arm in one of the worst places to treat imaginable. It's a dozen small miserable things, but at least no broken bones. And at least he is alive.

He looks through the cupboards and finds mostly canned goods and black cobwebs of the desert. No med supplies of all things, and his own are back on the ship. He sits on the bed and stares at nothing in particular. There's a party ahead and he genuinely considers running off again. He doesn't do parties. But Cobb would be sad, and even though Din owes him nothing, less than nothing...

He finds Cobb. 

Cobb sits him down and cleans his shoulder where it's hard to reach, the skin burning from either antiseptic or casual touch. He only sighs and wipes down Din's visor again. 

"You gotta clean these before they attract another dragon smelling the possibility of revenge," Cobb sighs lazily gesturing at the armor plates and helmet. But Cobb hasn't had time to change clothes yet either, and leaves dust almost everywhere he goes. Between that and Din's dried-bile armor, they make quite the sight. 

"Rich coming from you."

And Cobb cracks up again, grins, "Man, pays off being stoic, can never tell when you're about ta joke." He gets up and says he'll stop polluting the air with sand. Din closes the door after him. He needs to clean the armor and rest. He needs to rest so bad. 

The child sleeps too, for once agreeable after a long day.

They both wake to the general sounds of people, hooting and cheers and crying and crates being pulled and pushed. And soon music. Din wonders how likely they are to simply forget he exists, and not drag his sorry behind into the mess of social interaction. The knocking on his door begs to deliver.

There are bottles on shelves Din hadn't even noticed in the bar before. Glowing and fizzling and the space is crowded, spilling out onto the street even with the scarce people. Yes, they're all excited and Din knows they have every right to be. Yes, the night is filling with chatter and music and that is _good_ , and yes Din will tolerate it for politeness's sake. So he mingles, lets the local kids draw the child away with them to toss stones into sand-drawn circles. He kindly interacts, he nods. His shoulder aches and he'd bound his ankle up the best he could. He has a vague sense of where Cobb is, middle of the group, always crowded. Din stays by the walls. 

Cobb finds him.

"Hey, lemme show you something. Don't worry about the kid, entire town'd kill for him."

And Din follows him, outside, and as they pass by the bar, Cobb tosses him the remnants of a spear, missing its sharp head.

"For the leg," he says, and keeps walking as the sand gets softer.

Din forgets to ask where they're going. Every once in a while Cobb will look over his shoulder, mid-talking, to throw a smile, make sure Din's keeping up. It's easier to walk with less of his armor on, but he feels like sitting prey at the same time. Big price to pay for lightening the weight he needs to put on his leg. 

So Din hobbles along and watches. Cobb walks with a swagger that could be either personality, or years of traversing sand, and you can't _not_ watch him walk, the same way you can't tear your eyes off fire. And Din's growing acquainted with both.

They stop by a formation of rocks, clearly well-frequented if the remaining soot is anything to go by. It's not a tall climb by far, but Cobb still offers a hand and Din takes it, using his other to push off the spear-stick. The view also isn't from the vantage point of height here, but Din gets to sit down, rest his leg. You can see the lights of the town here, and as Cobb pulls thick dried roots out of the rock's crevice, he points out mountains in the distance, ones silhouetted against stars.

Cobb builds a little flame with the roots, sleeves rolled up to reveal tattoos. Of beasts and of names. Din sits and watches the first flickers, watches Cobb's hands, welcomes the spark of fire in the desert, its warmth. He doesn't fully feel it, only on the sliver of skin between his gloves and his sleeve, and he's used to that. That's all the warmth he needs.

He watches Cobb pull out a pack of something, something Din vaguely pins as a rare treat meant to be grilled over fires. He doubts he's ever had one, but he's seen it around, a long time ago. Barely anymore. 

But here's a pack. And Cobb tears it open, rolling the soft, bread-like sweet in his hand for a moment, as if to test its quality. He pierces it onto a sharp skewer and twirls that too. Hands it to Din. Din knows their hands brush, it's hard not to when dealing with something rather small. 

When Cobb starts talking again, about how he found this place, Din almost burns the sweet, hypnotized, observing Cobb's lurid display of casual charisma, how he talks. In a way that could convince a hoard of townsfolk to flip their views in a matter of minutes. Din thinks about the way he's a good driver and a decent pilot when it comes to jetpacks, about how can apply medical stitches and how much he _cares_ to change and survive and protect, about how his hands are fast and good with guns and god knows what else, and his smile, his smile, and it's so good to be hidden behind a helmet sometimes so you can stare forever.

"Sometimes I still see it here," Cobb concludes and takes his own snack off the skewer, "Wonder if I'll ever run into it full-grown".

He'd been talking about a baby dewback, one he'd seen over and over.

"Hope you don't run into its mother," Din surveys the far-stretching sand, almost blue, "Or adopt it." Din takes his own almost-melted food off the fire and turns away to eat it. 

"Heh, and end up like you, raising a green kid, huh," Cobb smiles and Din can hear that he's certainly looking away too, waiting for Din to turn back before doing so as well. 

"It's not terrible."

"Yeah?"

Din knows this is clear bait to get him talking. He bites. It's bafflingly easier to exist out here on a little island of light. Much easier to shed residual cage bars.

Cobb watches the moons and listens, periodically humming and slanting his eyes to look at Din with a smile, head leaning on hands that are no longer busy frying. Hands that have seen rough sands and rougher weapons. Elegant fingers, pretty, no longer gloved. Din picks at the dwindling coals with his empty skewer and talks about dealing with the rascal, and how he wouldn't trade that grubby whomp rat for anything.

It feels strange to say it, he's barely talked to anyone at length, ever, really, but his entire life balances between only two types of interactions with society: it's either insults and threats, sometimes business, but god forbid it's asking someone you've known for two days tops to take care of your fucking kid- well, _not your kid but_ \- your kid. It's either all or nothing. And Cobb welcomes the _all_ with open arms and soft eyes and a softer smile. Din would trust him with the pinpoint of his existence, sitting in a satchel watching the world with huge dumb eyes. And he did. When he shouted those barely processed words before cracking at the jetpack and sending Cobb hopefully out of harm's way. 

The fire's dead and it's very, very dark. Cold, too, and in the distance the town's party glimmers. 

"Will your people worry?" Din asks, feeling Cobb's shoulder bump his. 

"They're adults, they can take care of themselves. I can tell this ain't the last party we'll be throwing."

He doesn't mean to say it, or maybe he does, but Din's bad with his words in situations like this, and whatever he means, it comes out like this, "You should be there."

Cobb pats his knee, palm searing through the fabric, "I'm there all year every year, you're here _today_ though, and ya don't like parties, no big deal." Cobb shrugs and Din can feel it more than see it. His hand is still on Din's knee, but then again, they're sitting almost thigh to thigh. It's been a while. Any touch that wasn't violent. It's dark. Din reasons it's terribly dark. No harm in taking off his gloves, then, no harm in sneaking his hand on top of Cobb's, then. How do these things go? How do you navigate the minefield?

Cobb makes it easy, and without comment flips his hand, palm-up, and holds. Din can hear he'd paused breathing, if just for a moment. How terribly must two passing ships in the sea feel, each lonely on their voyage and yet in such proximity.

He tilts his head, somehow feeling like this is what people do. What people? And do _what?_ All Din does is rest the forehead of his helmet against the side of Cobb's head.

"It's dark now," Cobb says in response.

Din doesn't have much to say to that. It's true. And-

Cobb continues, "And if I close my eyes."

Din catches up, all of a sudden, like getting hit with the dragon's teeth all over again, but this time the adrenaline it shoots through his ribs is different, welcome. 

"You have a scarf, too."

"I do," and Cobb sits up a bit, only visible to Din through the thermal-imaging. He's warm against the desert's night and his breaths puff in the dark. "I hope m'not miscommunicating," he grins in a much less personal way, ready to reroute the situation. Din's desperately hoping _he's_ not misinterpreting anything either.

"Me too."

Cobb unties his scarf and he's taking inappropriately long to fold it and begin lifting it to his eyes, and Din feels like he might get up and leave and drive away and never think about Mos Pelgo and its sheriff again (this is a lie) (these are lies born out of fear of novelty) (the idea of kissing someone you for once _know)._ Din has been very patient with the party and the conflict between the Free Town and the Sand Raiders, and he's quickly hitting the limit.

What does Cobb notice? In the set of Din's shoulders, or maybe in the fiddle of his hands, owlishly trying to tell things apart in the dark by the barest of glints from Din's armor. Whatever it is, Cobb pauses, "What?"

And Din leans over the short space between them, getting the scarf out of Cobb's hands, crowding him against the back of the rock they'd sat against, "Honestly didn't pin you for crawler, but with how long you're taking-"

Cobb goes easily, "Aye, I'd let you pin me for whatever," his hands go up to hold onto Din's shoulders to stay stable, "Or whenever." It's obviously in-line with Cobb's usual teasing, but he lets Din tie on the scarf faster, working quickly behind Cobb's head to secure it.

"Stop talking."

Cobb clicks his tongue, blind now, hands crawling up to the nape of Din's neck where there's skin and the tips of curling hair. Everything feels like a rush, like if they don't make it in time someone will chicken out, "Oh yeah?" Cobb chuckles, and then snaps silent when he feels Din reach up to remove the helmet, hears the soft clink of it onto rock. 

Din feels the desert air and smells the recently extinguished fire. Tries to adjut without the thermal-imaging. 

He kisses Cobb, bracketing him in against the rockface for a moment, leans into it, and Cobb's starkly warm against the cool of the night and the scarf is soft over the bridge of his nose, his mustache unfamiliar and yet so _Cobb-_ and his hands shoot up into Din's hair, and he pushes back, sitting up, fingers tangling in curls. He's good, experienced, and it steals Din's thoughts away in a gentle sigh, and he lets himself be pushed as Cobb regains some composure, sitting back on his haunches, remembering about his ankle last-minute. Cobb cradles his face and evens the grounds and soon pulls back, hands remaining, like burning coals against Din's jaw. 

Din remembers to breathe, hands fisted into Cobb's shirtsleeves without the recollection of doing so. 

"Everything good?" Cobb smiles blindly, "I realize I shouldn't have stopped, don't think I can find ya again with this on."

He's holding Din's face. He can absolutely find it. Bastard's just asking to be kissed and Din huffs a chuckle, elated, heart a mile a minute, faster than when fighting a dragon, when facing death. He goes to kiss Cobb again, sureer this time, and can feel Cobb begin to smile, making it unreasonably difficult to keep kissing his terrible grin, but his hands are still in Din's hair without a single intention of leaving and for once Din will allow the assumption that whatever Cobb may be grinning at, it's of no detriment to Din. And so he moves sideways, to kiss Cobb's jaw, his cheek, the raised scar on his temple, and Cobb chuckles, like he can't get enough air, and then promptly shuts up when Din moves on to kiss his now bare neck.

Cobb's hands have now moved to Din's shoulders, and even in the dark, Din gets the idea Cobb hasn't stopped smiling, "What's the matter with you," he mouths into Cobb's neck and gets a ticklish flinch back. 

"Can't a guy be happy to uh."

"To what?" Din scrapes his scruff against Cobb's neck again.

He gets another involuntary response in return, "I frankly don't know," Cobb sighs, and reaches down to find Din again, hands cupping his face and bringing him back up, and Din can see Cobb's still fighting a grin. His view quickly becomes obscured as Cobb does manage to navigate the space and kiss him again, pulling Din in and soon prodding for permission to deepen the kiss, now crowding Din in and taking advantage of his height even when sitting. It barely leaves Din with the awareness to navigate the rock and avoid kicking the extinguished fire, knocking his helmet into the sand, or trapping his leg at a bad angle. Cobb just keeps kissing him, slow but with so much determination, it's like he's giving a speech again, instead this time, Din's the one being hopelessly convinced to let Cobb lead the way, careening back until he's the one being crowded by arms and insistent lips. 

Cobb's bony and strong and sharp, and receptive as all hell, stomach hitching as Din traces his hands down over his ribs, and then sides, settling on the much-needed belt and its holsters, and as Din's kissed with utmost care, he momentarily thinks back to an image of Cobb cheating death out in the desert with no water. And then to Cobb cheating death shooting-distance from the krayt dragon, over and over, and _he could've died._ And so could have Din. Many times over. Two ships at sea, passing in the night, and they could have passed each other by. 

Din struggles to get his lungs working past the tingling burn of having someone's hands all over him and melts all over again at the fact he _knows_ who this is, not some random hookup a year ago. This is Cobb and his mustache and his scarf and his hands and narrow hips and very talented mouth. 

They almost fall off the rocks when Cobb's fingers make contact with Din's side under the shirt, the fact he hasn't had much skin-to-skin, if just casual touch, only made worse by the fact Cobb's fingers are freezing.

He manages to get a swear somewhere in the moment they're split, and Cobb manages to chuckle, before snaking his hand against Din's side again, almost at his ribs, "You're like a space heater."

Din hisses but lets the hand stay, getting his breath back in the meantime, "And you cannot be human."

"Oh? Am I that good?"

"I meant it as you are _coldblooded,_ by the feel of it," Din sighs, feeling the chilly hand palm at his side.

Cobb reaches up with his other hand to righten the scarf, which hadn't inched down enough to be an issue, but Din appreciates the gesture. Makes him want to kiss Cobb again.

"I wasn't expecting us to stay out so late," Cobb shrugs and gets his other hand under Din's shirt, now seemingly with the express purpose of warming it. "Good thing stone retains warmth and we aren't freezing our asses off."

Din really can't do anything about the adamant hands searching for warmth under his shirt, and he lets them stay there as he reaches up to kiss Cobb's jaw, humming a moment before as to not startle him. Blindfolds increase the chances of headbutting someone an inappropriate amount. Cobb hums back for whatever reason, leans into it. Their kisses are now closed-mouth but Din feels his lungs fail at providing a stable rhythm once more, stumbling at the catharsis of having Cobb almost in his lap, coming down from the adrenaline high of that first step, first kiss, and instead reciprocating with a tired-half smile. The events of the day still happened, but at least Din got to catch a nap. Cobb, not so much. Cobb's malleable now, relaxed. Light. Din could probably walk through this man even with a busted ankle. He runs his hands up Cobb's ribs and watches in the terribly dim light as Cobb breathes, alive. 

"Why did we come out here? You said you wanted to show me something." And Din decides to make Cobb's time answering a little more challenging, goes to mouth at his neck some more.

It works, coupled with the fact that Cobb does his best to slant away, and Din can imagine him frowning under the scarf. Grinning, still. Hands a tad bit warmer.

"Nothing, mostly the absence of a party. Stars, maybe, but that's visible anywhere." Cobb steals another chaste kiss, and Din can swear Cobb's mission is succeeding, as he closes his eyes and specks dance along his vision. They're both getting cold, but the breath that puffs Din's face and chest is warm, warm, hypnotic in its pattern. A pattern he can break easily with a bite. He doesn't, or they'll get side-tracked again and freeze here to death. 

"Would the celebrations be over by now?" 

Cobb shrugs, hands having relaxed and drifted down to sit at Din's own belt as a comfortable surface even if he's still breathing rather hard. "Either way, no one's going to blame you for skipping out." And Cobb tilts his head down, an easy clue for Din to take. He kisses Cobb again, again, drunk on proximity.

"Would be rather ironic," another kiss, "If after all, your luck ran out with hypothermia in the desert."

Cobb barks out a tired laugh, "You wouldn't let it."

And he's right, Din wouldn't, he's holding onto Cobb and letting the man stick his hands under his shirt for warmth. And he'll let him do it forever, if he so desires.

But Cobb's underdressed and thinner and he's also awfully tired. Even Din can tell, and so he kisses him once more, hard and insistent, for good measure, getting back an appreciative hum. It doesn't last long, and he takes his last few minutes before all warmth runs out, to run his hands through Cobb's hair., careful of the scarf. Proof that even under a helmet, there's room for hair to stay shapely and good, unlike Din's own constant mess. Cobb continues to impress. Feeling the rock slowly grow cold under them is a small price to pay for Cobb's sigh at fingers running over his scalp, over the back of his neck.

"I regret to ask this," Din sighs, feels Cobb sit up a bit, where he'd started to relax against Din's arguably very warm chest.

"Yes?"

"But my ankle-"

"Stay as long as you'd like. Or need. Stay."

And Din voices no thank yous, doesn't feel like the situation is a bother to Cobb at all. The opposite, even. He feels Cobb butt his head against Din's chest, so open to touch without the armor, and it's warm. He doesn't have to imagine any of it. Instead, he will remember. Commit it to memory. Commit all of Cobb Vanth to memory and hope to never lose that. 

"The kids might still need their school, though," Cobb says as if it'd just hit him, in between dozing off and tracing his thumbs over Din's sides. 

Right. Multipurpose house.

"You have another place?"

"Short notice, only mine." It's said without flirtation or a pinch of humor. Just tired, calm Cobb Vanth, offering to house Din in his little town.

"I see."

"If you-"

"I do not mind."

"Good."

"We should go."

"We should."

It's easier to put his helmet on, after stealing yet another kiss, and watch Cobb take his scarf down, blinking wearily, and head back towards the lights, now that he knows he's permitted time to stay, heal. It's not _easy_ but it certainly is doable. They walk and Din feels each step in his ankle like he's walking on stolen time. The lights draw closer, but no sounds of partying follow, and Cobb helps Din hunt down the kid. Knocked out in the same cot as two other infants, the child snoozes without a stir, and Din takes him carefully, only to realize he needs one hand for the walking stick. 

Cobb doesn't wait for anything to be said and simply stretches his arms out for the child.

They walk back to Din's temporary house, meeting people along the way, still out, bundled up on the steps of their houses, watching the sky or drinking. 

They nod at Cobb and he nods back, and Din spends the short walk trying not to trip as he stares at Cobb's mouth, searching for traces of proof, of that what happened out in the dark happened. Cobb licks his lips too often, bad for the dry air of the desert, and that's confirmation enough. 

The child barely wakes, being transferred from Cobb's arms onto the bed. It helps maybe, that they barely turn the light on. No point now. It's very, very late, the light coming from outside, from other houses, is enough. Very, very late, and it's reflected on Cobb's gaze, everyone needs their sleep. Din insists on walking him out the door, even with his ankle, and right as Cobb's hand is on the doorknob, Din turns his around, briefly, "Close your eyes," and slides a hand over Cobb's brows for safety. 

He tips his helmet and for all his exhaustion, Cobb meets him again quickly, sighs into it, hands coming up to loop into Din's belt as Din presses him against the door and feels him melt while it lasts. 

"What's that for?" Cobb grins, eyes still closed.

"A good night. See you tomorrow." Din slips his helmet back on and knows his smile is betrayingly audible. Cobb just grins back, and then kisses the forehead of Din's helmet. Has to lean down to do it. He's gone soon after. Din watches him leave, or more specifically, watches Cobb's weird, lanky walk with a mixture of amusement, longing, and the same way you study a previously unseen representative of the desert's fauna. 

Din closes the door.

He falls asleep shortly, the exhaustion catching up at a sprint the moment his head hits the pillow. Yet he lies there for a few minutes, hand on his mouth, entranced by the memory of kissing like time doesn't matter. 

The fact he has his excuses to stay. To encroach on Cobb's house tomorrow for however long his ankle takes. It soothes him, and for those minutes before sleep, Din can finally think of something that's not the endless chase of keeping his child safe. Because, right, he'd bought them those weeks of peace, when he'd decided that an off-the-map town was worth it.

It was.

He has time. Only a bit, in the grand scheme of things, only one granule of sand in the relentless sand clock of events. But he has time. To rest. To steal more kisses tomorrow, the day after. Let the child go to school here, play, catch small, underfoot lizards.

He has time to finally get a taste of the local spotchka, a funny name for a drink from no particular language, similar to the sound of a bottle being opened, or the slap of a mop onto tile floors after a sandstorm's taken the town by siege. He has time to acquaint himself with Cobb, now that the tension of battle's worn off, now that the man isn't constantly standing vigil against approaching, hungry danger. His fast-paced jokes and stories. One doesn't survive years in the desert, fending for their little outcrop of civilization, to miraculously _keep_ that sparkle in their eye without a tremendous force of will and a deep-set supply of kindness.

Has time to watch Cobb throw the child up into the air before, without fail, catching him every time, giving Din a heart-attack each time too. But the child will laugh and squeal, and it will be rather funny, considering said child's levitated things far heavier than Cobb. And Cobb doesn't look heavy at all, maybe tall, sure, but if quiet polite constantly-laden-in-beskar Din wanted to, say, pick him up, he thinks he could. He has time to find out. That's all in the future. Now he lies in bed and listens to the child sniff in his sleep. 

So maybe he's not that much better, than those he's grumbled about to no one in particular, while tinkering with stubborn wires to make his casket of a ship run better. Big names and bigger personalities, sticking their noses into every possible plot.

Because, in the morning, Din will look out at Free Town and see a kid, making sure progress of some drawing in the sand, absorbed in the freedom of being let to roam the town's perimeters. Because in the morning, Din will see three other kids run up to whisk the first away for a game, shouting something, carrying random bushsticks they'd found. Laughing. He will see Cobb grin, still squinting into the early morning, but significantly, noticeably, better rested. He will see clothes hung up to dry in the street, baskets of underground vegetables sitting before the step-up to each house. He will see people smile. 

He'll come to understand he's changed a world too. This one.

**Author's Note:**

> so uh!!hi i hope you liked it and if u did good for you! throw me a comment or a strongly worded threat if i made you feel That caliber of fic-related anguish, but uh , hope you have a good day or go to sleep if its 4am for you


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